


Freewheel

by onbrokenfeet



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Smut, other stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9318230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onbrokenfeet/pseuds/onbrokenfeet
Summary: Freewheel - A billiards term describing when a player plays freely, instinctively, and quickly, while never second guessing themself.[A requested fic for the prompt 'Either Laura or Carmilla has to take the other home as a fake girlfriend.']





	1. Draw Four

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by transparentreject on Tumblr. This will be a mini-series and honestly, a much fluffier, smuttier work when compared to Take Me Back. I hope you enjoy it all the same!

Your life has always been filled with non-stop noise.    
  
You blocked out the noise you didn’t want with noise you could tolerate. Clubs are loud and crowded and you can’t feel anything but your own sweat. Local shows cough up out of tune guitars and faceless idiots who are almost fun to make out with in bathrooms. Some would say you went through a normal teenage rebellion phase. You would say that your adult life still carries an undying need to suffocate all the sound with hangovers.    
  
You’re not a mess, just a little, busy.    
  
On this particular busy day, you’re leaving work at the gas station and your dearest brother is here to pick you up. Your car is broken down, but you’ll pay to get it fixed soon. It’s just more noise, anyway. You plop into his comfortable, leather seat and don’t even bother to look at him. He’s probably grinning. It’s sad really, how much satisfaction he gets out of seeing you fail.    
  
“I hope you got paid to leave this late,” Will says.    
  
“I hope you don’t expect me to give you gas money,” you reply.    
  
“I never do,” he says. He starts the engine and your ride home is spent gazing out the window. It’s not a long way, you could have walked, but your mother simply won’t let you. You couldn’t be seen out on your feet, why, what would the neighbors think? That’s it. That’s the noise. A holier than thou brother who kisses mommy dearest’s feet and smiles while you fail.    
  
“Are you still with that girl?” Will asks.    
  
“Which one?” You have to ask. You really don’t know.    
  
“Ell,” Will answers. You have to keep yourself from vomiting on the dashboard you know he loves so much. One constant in your life other than your family, and you blew it. Face down in a puddle of your dinner, half naked with a girl in the other room you didn’t even know. It wasn’t unheard of for either of you to see other people. You agreed on it, that’s why you worked. That though, something about it set her over the edge.    
  
“No,” you say.    
  
“What did you do?” Will asks. Of course, he knows it was your fault.    
  
“Long night of drinking, brought a nobody home, she came home and found us,” you answer. “That’s all she wrote.”    
  
“Damn, you know, mom really liked her,” Will says. “She’ll be heartbroken. Also, I thought you quit drinking.”    
  
“I did, mostly. There are just times where you are incredibly vexatious and I end up somewhere I shouldn’t be.”    
  
“You know, we wouldn’t pressure you at all if you didn’t fight us so hard,” Will replies.    
  
You nod. You don’t know when it started, this whole thing. Mother always had high expectations. Her children were to get top grades, get into excellent schools, and graduate with everyone in the country trying to hand them paychecks. It happened for your sister, and your brother, too. That just wasn’t how it went for you. You’re intelligent, you know that. You’re dedicated, hell, even responsible when you need to be. Things like that though, that sort of success just wasn’t meant for you. Whatever you’re looking for out of life, you haven’t found it yet.    
  
“Anyway, before we go inside,” Will pauses as he pulls the car into the driveway. “Mother is doing some form of charity event next week. She wants us all to be there. She wanted you to bring Ell, so I hope you have a formidable replacement.”    
  
“Sure, let me just pull one out of my ass,” you reply without a thought. He chuckles and brushes it off before you both head inside without another word. You know that in some way he’s looking out for you. You also know that pressure and strict lessons aren’t what works for you. Maddie understands that, but the others just can’t see it.   
  
You walk into your more than spacious home. Mother has filled it to the brim with any form of antique she can get her hands on. Rugs ten times your age, vases made by artisans who are long gone, every single piece of furniture is carved out of wood or upholstered by some sort of deity. Well, perhaps the last bit is untrue, but it may as well be made by a god for how much she’s spent on it. You walk straight, between the two curved staircases, through a large hallway, and into the dining room. The lengthy dining room table is incredibly unnecessary in your opinion. She hardly ever hosts parties in the house anymore. She’s outgrown it. You have too, really.    
  
“Darlings!” Mother’s voice echos through the room. You feel your muscles tense at the sound.   
  
“Mother,” William greets her with a warm tone.    
  
“Mother,” you greet her sheepishly. Sheepishness is not really your style. However, when your mother is involved, it’s all you can stand to do.    
  
“Sit, sit,” she says. She’s at the head of the table to your left. William sits on her right hand side, and you pull a chair to sit to the right of him. Typically, Maddie would be across from William. She has outgrown your childhood home, too, though. Unfortunately, she managed to actually leave it.    
  
“Now,” Mother starts. She continues, hands clasped, wide smile glued to her face. She’s graceful and endlessly fake. Sometimes she can’t shake the falseness, even in front of you. She babbles for a while about her work and about the charity event coming up next week until dinner is served. You enjoy a lovely turkey and a spread of vegetables. You chew quietly and listen occasionally as your mother and Will discuss things. What those things are is an enigma to you. You can’t care enough. Your mother asks you a few ordinary questions before you ask to be excused before she can ask about your love life. She allows it and you make your way up to your room. It’s a small place and surprisingly quiet on the right day. There are a few posters up, various bands and movies cover crimson walls. Your furniture is dark wood and breathes dust and old spirits into your modern age decor. You flop onto your bed, uniform vest still around your body. You dig your phone out of your pant pocket.    
  
You send a text that reads, ‘Need a good date for one of Mother’s ego boost events. SOS.’   
  
You lay for a moment in wait. You consider your options. You could just fake a grave illness and not go, but you’ve done it too many times. She won’t believe your kidneys are failing for a sixth time. You could say you have to work, but she’d just pay you the amount your shift would have given you. You phone vibrates and you hope it’s your usual savior with answers.    
  
The reply you’ve gotten reads, ‘No Ell?’    
  
You sigh and roll your eyes. Really?    
  
‘Long story, got anything for me?’    
  
‘Perhaps, meet me at Bellefleur’s at 7pm tomorrow. Party with my associates.’    
  
You feel a grin slowly creep across your face. Maddie is a talented woman, and charming too. She used to be your only equal in going out and finding what could be useful before it turned disposable. She’s changed that about herself, just a little bit. She uses it for business now instead of late night snacks. You’ve found though, that every once in awhile, she’ll help you soothe your insatiable appetite when you need a favor. You send her a text thanking her for her kindness. You’re sure she’ll find some degrading way that you can repay her. You return your focus to the silence.   
  
You recluse in gentle melancholy. This night is quieter than most, and easier to swallow. You stare at the ceiling for a while. Your mind retraces what it can remember. The curves of bodies so delicate to your touch, the way windows of vacant buildings sound when they shatter, the way whiskey smells when you first open it, the way the sun looks when it rises over a cityscape far away, and the sweet taste of victory of another night well spent. Glory, so much glory, and yet the memories start to feel rotten. They were good times, the best times. Yet still, that wasn’t quite what you were looking for. You fall asleep, adrift in a swirling sea. Your final thought before the tide pulls you off is, Why am I not good enough on my own?   
  
**\- The Next Day -**   
Bellefleur’s is a simple place. It’s not somewhere your mother would ever, ever condone you being. She’d probably fall over dead if she knew Maddie had invited you. Maddie assured you earlier in the day  that the budget was tight at work, and that this was all they could afford for the party. It wasn’t her first or tenth choice, nor did she want to attend, but she assured you all would be well. You saunter in proudly. The smell of cigars and spilled beer greets you like an old friend. There are men to your right playing pool. There are booths and tables to your left. It’s packed, surprisingly. The usual Friday night wanderers and misfits are all here, you think. They’re ingrained in the seats and look as old as Mother’s furniture. Surrounding them are young people, in booths, standing around, crowding the bar. You wonder what kind of fruity drinks they’ve asked the poor, old bartender for.    
  
“Carmilla!” You hear. Your sight realigns in front of you and you find your sister walking toward you with her usual smile. She has her arms spread wide and envelops you in a light hug. She’s dressed beautiful as always. You couldn’t name the dress type if you tried, but you’re sure it’s the latest in fall fashion. She’s wearing a dark red, decorated with a touch of black. The neckline is low, but leaves a lot to the imagination. You know how she plans her outfits.    
  
“So glad you came, I’ve been dying to see you,” she says. She’s giving you a look that says _play along, kitty cat_. So, you do.    
  
“And I’ve been dying to get mother off my ass,” you whisper. No one else hears you. She nudges you with her elbow. You smirk in reply. “I’ve missed you, Maddie. Pleasure to be here,” you say.   
  
“I was just about to head to the ladies’ room to freshen up. Would you be a dear and accompany me?” She asks.    
  
“Of course,” you say. The few that had paid any attention to you have gone back to their fruity drinks and light conversation. You only imagine they’re talking about their bosses in ways they never could before. Your sister takes you to the right, past the pool tables and into the ladies’ room. She knocks on each stall door before turning around and confirming there’s no one else there.    
  
“Back in a bar bathroom making nefarious plans, feels just like freshman year,” you say. Maddie chuckles.    
  
“Those plans had different endings, do I want to know what happened with Ell?”    
  
“Why does everyone want to know?” You groan.    
  
“Is it so awful that I thought you were happy?”    
  
That hits you in a strange spot. You’re always so busy fending off questions about why you aren’t already ruling a small nation, you forget that someone actually cares. Not that there aren’t parts of your brother and mother that care. It’s just that you don’t see them often.    
  
“No, but I’d rather skip the dramatic backstory and get straight down to business,” you reply.   
  
“Dramatic backstory is my business,” she says with a smile. She’s right. She works for a magazine, after all. Celebrity stories and fashion. It’s nearly beneath her, but she’s brilliant with secrets and fabric.    
  
“Yes, well, if we’re here for a family therapy session, I think I’ll head out,” you say. You turn on your heels but Maddie has always been quick with her words.    
  
“You actually happened to message me at just the right time,” she says. She regains your interest. She always gets what she wants, even if she has to fight for it. “Tonight’s party is mostly interns and lower office workers. A few talented writers, and, of course all of them are brilliant girls with lovely smiles. You could pick any of them you wanted and impress mother next week.”    
  
You smirk. What is she up to?    
  
“I’m sure there’s absolutely no downside or repercussions,” you sarcastically reply.    
  
“Be on your best behavior,” Maddie says. “That’s all I ask.”    
  
You give her a stern look of suspicion. Her smile does not even begin to falter. There’s something she knows but won’t share. Maddie loves games, and so do you.    
  
“I always am,” you reply. You both head out of the bathroom at about the same time. You walk up to the bar and ask for a Loose Cannon. You nod a thank you to the bartender and go about your mission. You don’t need someone for long, or someone who will get attached. You consider going down to the tent city on a few miles away and asking the girl at the Cat Scratch to come with you. You know you can’t though. You’ve lied to Mother for years, and you know she’ll catch on. You need someone real, someone you can deal with. The whole thing is making your head hurt. You look at the options around you.    
  
There’s a gaggle of girls around Maddie, clearly kissing her ass for a promotion. You skip them just on principle. They don’t deserve what they won’t work for. Maddie will have them replaced by morning. You look past them at the people at the tables. There are four girls at one table, talking about tomorrow’s make-up spotlight. They’re gabbing about something petty. Too easy. You look to the booths. There are a few quieter tables, they’re reclused, drinking together. One in the corner, an empty booth, and another against the wall. They’d be your best bet but it’ll be hard to work your way into their conversations.    
  
You then notice, Maddie never introduced you. No one has approached you, not even Maddie’s fan club. She might not have even mentioned you were coming. They might think you work in the mailroom, and they probably don’t even care to assume that much. There’s something or someone that you’re missing. This is it, the game, the hunt. Maddie wants you to find your target and go in for the metaphorical kill.    
  
Your eyes continue to scan the room before you look back to your left. The men playing pool have just finished their game. Finally, something you can work with. You walk over with a smirk and sip at your beer.     
  
“Room for one more?” You ask. They’re all quite grim figures. Thick bodies and foul facial expressions. They look tough, but you know them. Well, not them particularly, but this is your crowd.    
  
“You know how ta play?” One asks.    
  
“Perhaps, do you?” you ask. His friends burst into laughter.    
  
“Alright, alright, rack em’ up,” he says. You turn to look at Maddie who is pretending to listen to the gaggle of girls around her. She’s eyeing you curiously with a single raised brow. You know what she’s thinking, and she’s slowly catching on to your plan. Your new acquaintances are being kind enough to both pay for the game and rack the balls.    
  
“Ladies first,” the tallest says. The patch on his shirt says ‘Stripes.’    
  
“Oh my, such chivalry,” you taunt. His grip on his cue tightens and your smirk grows into a grin. You grab your own cue from the wall and chug the rest of your beer. Showtime. You line the cue ball and your shot. You don’t look away from the table, but you’re sure that as soon as you make your move, Maddie will bring some attention your way. This is the first round of the game. Your cue slides between your fingers and hits its target with deadly accuracy. The balls scatter in a clean hit. You knock the thirteen ball and the five into corner pockets. You watch the men around Stripes start to chuckle.    
  
“Your call then,” Stripes says.    
  
“Stripes,” you say confidently. He grits his teeth. You’re only getting started. You manage to score two more balls before he even has the chance to shoot. You’re starting to gather a crowd too. You can only imagine what Maddie had said. Though, she probably just walked over very innocently to watch her baby sister play and had no idea a gaggle of girls would follow. You laugh at your own inner sarcasm.   
  
The turns grow quick and heated. Stripes is losing his patience and his temper. His friends are taunting him and he’s taunting you. You haven’t even spoken, you only watch the table closely. There’s a crowd of wanderers and possible fake girlfriends around you. There’s so much sound. You’re focused though, you’re in your zone. One more ball, then the eight. He has two more, then the eight. You take a deep breath and look up to see Maddie grinning. You look at her, wondering what it is she wants you to find. She won’t give you a single hint.    
  
There’s a collective gasp and a few pained noises as Stripes misses an easy shot. You hold your gaze only a moment longer with Maddie. She sighs. You can almost hear her saying, “come on, kitty cat, you’re in your element.” You shrug and she rolls her eyes dramatically. Stripes clears his throat to get your attention. You look over at him across the table and he gestures for you to take your shot. You look back at Maddie but she only smiles. Fine, you’ll take matters into your own hands.   
  
You look at the table. The eight has barely moved, which is good for you. You set your eyes on the eleven. It’s an awkward shot, you could bounce it, but it’s risky. There is another way, another risky, non-game-legal way. You don’t look to Maddie this time, only at the table. You slip out of your leather jacket and toss it onto a chair. You lean your back against the edge of the table and place the cue behind your back. You bend until your elbows touch the felt. It’s bad for the table, but good for showing off your curves.   
  
You look down the table and shoot. Somewhere between your eyes and architecture, the shot pays off. The eleven sinks into the corner pocket. The small crowd cheers and you smile. You lift yourself from the table with ease and eye up the eight ball. Your heart drops into your stomach. This, you did not calculate for. You have absolutely no shot. You circle the table.    
  
“Call the shot, Yoga,” Stripes says. You’ve earned a nickname, you’ll cherish it forever.    
  
“I will,” you reply.    
  
“You can’t,” he says. You begin to walk past him when someone grabs your arm. It’s a girl from the crowd, one you didn’t see before. You give her an odd look of agitation and confusion. She’s shorter than you, blonde, and mouthing a word. A phrase? You cock your eyebrow and she sighs.    
  
‘Freewheel’ she mouths again. You chuckle. It’s almost encouraging. You had done your work, and you had other games to win. You nod in thanks and look at the balls. The cue had landed down by the left corner pocket where you were standing. The eight was right on the edge of the right center pocket. You nod and pray to no one in particular.    
  
“Left center pocket,” you say. The guys erupt in laughter.    
  
“Good luck with that, Yoga!” Stripes yells. You look to the blonde girl, she smiles faintly and nods.    
  
You do what may be called aiming and fram the cue into the cue ball. It shoots directly at the eight which bounces off of the pocket at an awkward angle. It misses your called pocket entirely and spins before ending up by the right corner pocket. You let your shoulders slump and feign being upset. Stripes shouts in victory and reclaims some of his ego among his men. Some of the crowd dissipates but a few people stick around.    
  
They compliment your confidence and shots. They apologize for your loss as if someone has just died. A couple stand close to you, still eyeing your hips as if you were still aiming that shot. You thank them all with as few words as possible. They’re all possible candidates, but none of them stick out as particularly bearable. You look for Maddie, but instead catch a glimpse of the blonde girl just in time for her to wave as she goes for the exit. You grab your jacket and excuse yourself from the crowd. You look over to the bar to find Maddie occupied by a young man in a flannel shirt and jeans. So she used you to pass her crowd off on someone. Great. She can have them back now, you think as you dash out of the bar. You find the shorter girl outside, heading down the sidewalk, off into the night drenched city.    
  
“Hey, freewheel!” You yell. She stops and turns around.    
  
“Yeah, Yoga?!” She yells back.    
  
“Not gonna stay for a drink?” You call. You’re making your way toward her but she remains in place, watching you.    
  
“I mean, I wasn’t planning on it,” she says.    
  
“Plans can change,” you say.    
  
“They can. However, I have a hot date with my Netflix account,” she retorts. You’re standing face to face with her now. The only light above you is an ominous street light. Freewheel’s face is covered in shadows yet, she’s still cute. She has a flannel tied around her waist and she’s wearing dark, well-fitting jeans. You remind yourself that her eyes are on her face.    
  
“Well, as much of a pressing matter as that is, I believe I may be able to provide more interesting company,” you say.    
  
“Oh, really?” Her face doesn’t give you a hint of interest, but there’s a curiosity in her tone.    
  
“Quite possibly, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to top a binge of Making a Murderer, how will a humble girl like me manage?” You ask, throwing a hand over your heart for dramatic effect. Maddie would be proud. She chuckles.    
  
“I’ve already watched the whole thing, anyway,” she admits. “Do you think he did it?” She asks. You pause. Shit, you only half watched it.    
  
“I’ll tell you my whole theory if we can discuss this anywhere that I can sit down and not feel an imminent sense of robbery,” you say.    
  
“Oh,” she says, looking around. “That’s actually a fair point.”    
  
“Drink?” You ask.    
  
“I don’t actually drink,” She says. You’re taken aback.    
  
“I’m sure they have soda, probably even juice,” you say.   
  
“Walk me home?” She offers.    
  
You nod and she turns. You take out your phone and send a quick text. ‘Walking one of your girls home. Buy my beer?’ You place your phone into your pocket and look up at the sky. The city is too bright for real stars. You look to Freewheel who seems lost in thought.    
  
“I don’t think he did it,” she says. You think for a moment before retrieving the memory of the conversation you just had.    
  
“You don’t?” You ask.    
  
“No,” she says. “But, I’d have to do my own research. The series seems a bit one-sided, honestly. They may say it isn’t biased but, I think they make it totally clear they want to prove his innocence.”    
  
“Huh,” is all you say. You want her to keep talking until you find a diversion.    
  
“You’ve never watched it, have you?” Damn, too late.    
  
“A bit of it. Not enough to really make an opinion on his innocence, but enough to see your point as plausible.” Nice save. She nods in appreciation. Silence settles between you. She watches the ground and you stare straight ahead. You don’t know where she’s taking you but you’re familiar with the area. It’s one of the neighborhoods that’s being renovated. Old buildings getting filled with small businesses, yuppies moving into overpriced homes. You spot a particular corner you once spewed chunks of chili cheese fries on. You hadn’t even been drinking, Andy’s had just moved in and you didn’t back down from challenges, even eating contests. You turn at the corner of Vomit Avenue and remember that you’re escorting a girl who you’ve already lied to.    
  
“So, what do you do at Mix?” You ask.    
  
“I’m a writer,” she says. Maddie had mentioned writers earlier, you remember. They’re brilliant with lovely smiles, she mentioned in particular. Well, this girl does have a lovely smile, you think.    
  
“Are you responsible for writing the columns on lipstick shades or dieting tips?”    
  
“We’ve actually taken up a more body-positive message,” she says, sounding surprised at her own words. “It only took a year of me petitioning and a few barely traceable online Facebook protest events.”    
  
It’s your turn to chuckle. “I hadn’t realized you were such a rebel.”    
  
“It was pretty minor, and I only got almost fired,” she says proudly. She has a slight pep to her step for a moment. You watch her, but the moment she looks at you, she recluses again. You look away from each other.    
  
“So what do you actually write when you’re not getting almost fired?” You ask.    
  
“I started with the gossip column. I want to be an investigative journalist, so I took whatever I could get. For a while I just did stories on like, what kind of sandwich Matthew Mcconaughey likes the most, whether or not Angelina Jolie prefers tropical vacations or arctic tundras, just bizarre whatever to fill the magazine. After I found a story about a certain famous actress going out with a certain famous singer, I was promoted. Now I get to write the major, breaking news about relationship drama,” she finishes with clearly fake enthusiasm. She sighs and you feel a grain of sympathy worm its way into your system.    
  
“It sounds like you really, really love you job,” you say.    
  
“Oh. Was I complaining? Oh god, I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone else at the office.”    
  
“Yes, but clearly within reason. Don’t worry, your self-loathing is safe with me.”    
  
“Thanks,” she says with a sweet smile. It’s an honest smile, one that makes you smile in return.    
  
“What do you do at Mix?” She asks.    
  
“Oh, I was actually invited by my sister,” you say. “I am a coffee connoisseur and hot dog making specialist down at the Gas Barn.”    
  
“Lucky you,” she replies. “Invited to destroy the Sons of Grumpery at pool?”    
  
“Indeed,” you say. “Though, I technically lost.”    
  
“You pulled off a lot of impressive shots. I mean you went all Bend it like Beckham on them, I honestly thought Stripes was going to lose his marbles when you sunk that ball.”    
  
“Wait, do you know him?”    
  
“Unfortunately. They’re always there.”    
  
“Go there often?” you ask with a sly grin. She scoffs and then pauses.    
  
“They have great fries,” she admits quietly.    
  
“Adorable,” you say without a thought. You should have had another beer. You glance at her and she’s biting her lip and looking at the building beside you. She stops and you prepare yourself for impact.    
  
“This is it,” she says. You go to ask her what in the hell she’s talking about, but then you remember you’ve been walking her home. The building is tall and in line with nine other buildings beside it. It must be an apartment building, you think. She stares up at the door and turns back to face you.    
  
“Thanks for walking me home,” she says.    
  
“Anytime, Freewheel,” you reply. She laughs. She looks at the ground and then back up at you. You both stand, as if there’s something else, something more.    
  
“You wanna watch Making a Murderer? You know, so you can form your own opinion on his innocence?”    
  
“I thought you said it was biased,” you remark.    
  
“I did, but I have a laptop for expanding our research possibilities,” she says.    
  
“I don’t know, is that as important as whether or not Amy Adams might want to wear a sweater or cardigan tomorrow?”    
  
“Woah, I got a promotion, remember?”    
  
“Oh, right. Sorry, will Amy Adams be having an affair tomorrow?”    
  
“Better, thank you.”    
  
“Alright, let’s do it,” you say. She smiles again, that sweet, shy smile. She waves for you to follow and you do. She hits the passcode on the door and leads you up the stairs. So. Many. Stairs. You make it to the top floor, of course, and she shoves her key in the door. She shoulders the thing open in such a particular way that there’s paint peeling off the door.    
  
“Don’t mind the mess, I wasn’t expecting company,” she says. The apartment is quaint. The door opens to a narrow, white hallway. There’s a Doctor Who poster to your left on the wall, and an opening to the living room on your right which also leads to the kitchen. There’s a door to the left down the hall and one in the center at the end. You follow Freewheel into the living room. There’s a very comfortable looking blue couch with a coffee table in front of it. The coffee table has a single mug sitting on it, otherwise the place is entirely spotless.    
  
“Real mess you have going on here,” you say, pointing at the mug. She blushes.    
  
“Okay, so maybe not as bad as I thought,” she replies. She grabs the mug and practically dashes into the kitchen. It’s a small room from what you can tell. It’s separated from the living room by a short row of cabinets and a counter. “Sit your jacket anywhere,” she calls.    
  
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t wanna add to the mess,” you call back. You hear her groan.    
  
“Can I interest you in some hot cocoa?” she asks as she leans down to look at you under the cabinets.    
  
“Sounds lovely,” you reply. It wasn’t the first thing you expected, but also wasn’t the last. You look around the room as she rinses out her mug and grabs you a fresh one from the cabinet. She gets to work on the cocoa and you admire her wall decor. There’s an odd painting on the wall to the right, it’s a vaguely humanoid shape painted in various hues of blue. Beside it is a Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets movie poster. You can’t tell which one amuses you more. You’re brought back into the moment by the sound of movement coming toward you. She hands you a mug full of steaming hot chocolate.    
  
“Thanks,” you say.    
  
“Sure,” she replies. She sits her mug on the table and plops onto the couch.    
  
“You can sit,” she says. You chuckle and sit your mug across from hers and plop down next to her. She seems fairly tense. Her knees are brought to her chest and she’s nearly perched at the end of the couch. You’ve got your legs stretched under the table and you’ve reclined, letting the couch swallow you.    
  
“Do you really want to?” She asks. Again, you wonder what the hell she’s talking about.    
  
“Sure,” you say, knowing better than to agree to mysteries. She nods and grabs the remote from the couch arm beside her. She turns the TV on and brings up the aforementioned series. You put on your best concentration face and listen intently to the story. Occasionally you check on your new friend until she starts to relax. She ends up reclining similarly to you, and you notice out of the corner of your eye, that she checks on you too. Time passes, whether it was a lot or a little, you have no clue. It’s just you, her, cocoa, the TV, and peace. You find peace, even if the series is stressing you the hell out.    
  
“Is this actually real or is it just a very elaborate Fargo?” You ask after a while.    
  
“That would be why they call it a documentary.”    
  
“Thank you, Webster,” you snap.    
  
“You asked,” she snaps back. There isn’t malice though, it’s playful. “What time is it? And if you say time for you to buy a watch I swear to Dobby,” she starts.    
  
“I am not that cheesy,” you correct. You fish out your phone and look at the time. It’s 2AM. Fuck, you think.    
  
“It’s two,” you answer her original question.    
  
“Holy Hufflepuff, I thought it was later,” she says.    
  
“Should I go?” You ask.    
  
“You don’t have to. I mean, you still have time to form your own opinion. Or we can do something else, if you want, or you can go home if you have to. Or, I can stop talking even though I can’t.”    
  
You give her a light laugh. Her hair is slightly frayed from the back of the couch and her flannel has come untied around her waist. Her face is pink with frustration. There isn’t anything nearly this interesting at home.    
  
“I’m content,” she says. “Unless there’s something else you might like to do.”    
  
“Well,” she starts.   
  
\- Two Long, Awful Hours Later -   
  
You should have stuck with content. You could have gone home. You could have done literally anything else on the entire planet. Yet she asked, and she asked so politely, and so quietly, that an ASPCA commercial could not have drummed up more sympathy. Besides, you can’t deny a challenge.  Netflix continues behind you, going on and on about murder and mystery. You can’t be asked what it’s saying though. You’re sitting at the coffee table, legs crossed like you’re in kindergarten. She’s sitting across from you, a wide grin on her face.    
  
“You’d be terrible at poker,” you note.    
  
“Green seven. Uno!” She shouts.    
  
“Again? You’ve got to be kidding me,” you reply. You still have three damn cards in your hand.    
  
“Read em’ and weep, Yoga, go,” she replies.    
  
You look at your hand and sigh dramatically. “Taking advantage of a poor, defenseless stranger, how am I to survive?” She somehow widens her grin  and you grin back. You slap down a card.    
  
“Draw four. Color is blue.”    
  
“What?!” She shouts. The neighbors are probably ready to call the cops. You’ve played blackjack in shifty, dark bars that aren’t as intense or deadly as this particular game. She begrudgingly draws her cards and grumbles to herself. She then stares at her hand and nods.    
  
“Blue reverse. Goes back to me. Yellow reverse. Goes back to me. Yellow Draw Two Cards. Go.”    
  
“That’s just disgusting,” you reply.    
  
“You made me draw,” she says with a shrug.    
  
You draw two and stare at your own hand.    
  
“Two can play at this game, you know,” you say.   
  
“I believe two are,” she replies.    
  
“Yellow skip. Goes back to me. Yellow reverse. Green skip. Green four. Uno!”    
  
“Two are definitely playing at this game,” she says. “Draw Four. Color is red.”    
  
“What?!” You shout this time. “How?!”    
  
“I don’t know, you shuffled!”    
  
You drop your card face down and rub your temples. “That’s it,” you say.    
  
“Wait,” she says nervously. You stand slowly and dust yourself off to clear the imaginary dirt you feel she kicked upon you. “What are you-”    
  
She backs up into the couch before pushing herself to stand.    
  
“There is only one thing childish enough to solve anger from a kid’s game.”    
  
“Family-friendly game,” she corrects.    
  
“Last straw, Freewheel,” you say. You begin to walk around the coffee table and she darts into the kitchen and you follow. She slides across the floor and knocks into the fridge shoulder first. She’s somewhere between giggling and shrieking. You can’t slide in your boots but you crash into her, digging your fingers into her sides. She tries to resist but she can’t. She bursts into a fit of laughter and tears. She slides slowly to the floor and takes you down with her. You take advantage of the position and rest your forehead on her shoulder while bearing down on her sides. She kicks the counter across from you both.    
  
“Uncle, uncle!”    
  
You let off of her sides and place your hands on the ground on each side of her. Both of you let your laughter subside before you notice anything around you or in front of you. She’s under you, on the floor, smiling widely with bright cheeks. Her eyes are soft and filled with tears. Her hair is a mess now and her flannel is long gone. She’s breathing more and more slowly before she starts to notice it too. You wonder how you look through her eyes. Probably like a teary, weird blur of messy hair. She reaches a hand up to place it on your elbow and holds you there, for a moment. It’s a gentle touch. You lean down and your noses touch. You wonder how you got here. From a text, to a game of pool, that’s right. You had almost forgotten. She pushes herself up and closer. She leans in and your lips touch, almost. It’s awkward and she misses her mark by less than an inch. You forget it all, even the terrible game of Uno.    
  
You shift and place your other leg over her legs. You straddle her and she allows it. She shifts her back so that she’s sitting a bit more upright. You lean in and this kiss is just like her smile. It’s shy and gentle and genuine. It’s sweet and so very peaceful.    
  
“That’s what I was going for,” she whispers, as if reading your mind.    
  
“I’ll give you a 78 on accuracy for the first one,” you whisper back. She laughs as you ease your lips back down. You hold it for a moment, the gentleness. But your appetite reminds you of who you are. You press into it until you can feel her holding her breath. You break your lips apart just long enough for her to breathe, and then the fun begins. You go toward her lips again but when she goes for a kiss, you take her bottom lip between your teeth and give it a tug. Her breath hitches and you smile. You kiss her on the cheek and trace her jawline with your lips. Your trail leads you to her ear and you nibble on the lobe. She places her hands on your biceps and squeezes. You flex for show and she chuckles.    
  
“Trying to show off?” She whispers.    
  
“Perhaps,” you whisper into her ear. She shivers.    
  
“Do you perhaps want to show off somewhere more comfortable than the kitchen floor?”    
  
You silently agree and shift to place your legs in between hers. She goes to question the movement but you reply by wrapping your arms around her torso. You find a way to prepare your feet and lift. She squeals and wraps her legs around you while her arms cling for dear life. You laugh into her ear as she buries her face in your shoulder.    
  
“I won’t drop you,” you promise.    
  
“Show off,” she grumbles.    
  
“Maybe I will drop you,” you reply as you make your way toward the hallway.    
  
“Or you could, you know, not,” she says. Her fingernails are digging into your shoulder blades and you can’t help but think she’s doing it on purpose. You walk down the hallway and face the two doors. The one at the end is the bathroom, concluded by what you can see. So, the closed door to your left must be the bedroom. There’s only one problem.    
  
“Give me a hand?”    
  
“Oh. You’re gonna have to turn a bit,” she replies. She brings her face from your shoulder and looks to her right. You turn a bit to your left so she’s closer to the door. She leans and you kiss her cheek as she does. She smiles as she gets the knob to turn. You turn all the way and kick the door the rest of the way open. She hits the lightswitch on the way in and you get a grasp of what’s around you. Well, sort of. Your face is occupied by lips that touch everything they can without throwing off your balance. The bed is luckily straight ahead and you lean forward, dropping her gently.    
  
She scoots herself up on the bed and waits. You take advantage of the moment and crawl towards her slowly. She keeps your gaze the entire time, watching you as you straddle her once more. You drop your elbows on either side of her and when she goes in for a kiss, you go for her neck. You sink your teeth into her skin and her whole body shakes. You kiss what will surely bruise by morning.    
  
You kiss her jaw again and then her lips.    
  
“Was that for the draw four?” She asks between kisses.    
  
“Is that your idea of sex talk?”    
  
“I don’t know,” she says. She takes advantage of your lack of defense and pulls you down close, sinking her own teeth into your neck. She kisses what will most definitely bruise by morning.    
  
“But that was for the draw four,” she whispers in your ear. She lets out a low laugh and you do too. You take back your seat on the throne and kiss her neck, making your way down to her collarbone. You give it a light bite before sucking at it. She digs her nails into your shoulder with one hand and tugs at your hair with the other. You tug at her shirt and she lets you take it. She keeps her back up long enough for you to fiddle with her bra clasp. You quickly get back to work, slowly running your fingers up her stomach. It’s unexpectedly toned but so comfortably warm. Your hand lands on her breast, kneading it as your lips make work of her other breast. Your movements are precise and each time you do something she responds to, you do it until you feel she might tear your back open. This is the same for how you kiss her stomach, how you bite her hips, how you trace her every curve with your fingertips. You reach the button of her jeans and you pause. You look up at her face after a fresh bite on the hip you hadn’t touched.    
  
“Wait,” you say.    
  
“Now?” She whines.    
  
“Freewheel,” you say sternly.    
  
“Yes?” She says, she opens her eyes and looks at you. She’s delightfully red, much different from before. This is a different red. This is a red of muffled whimpers and near curse words.    
  
“What’s your actual name?” You ask.    
  
“Laura,” she says. “And yours?”    
  
“Carmilla.”    
  
“Pleasure to meet you,” she says, closing her eyes again and laying back. She relaxes for a moment as you get to work at getting her pants off.    
  
“Pleasure is all mine,” you say with a grin. Past her pants are adorable briefs with robots on them. You have to stifle the urge to make a comment on them. You wiggle them down her legs and take in the sight of her. She’s beautiful, really. Even with frayed hair and tense, sweating limbs. Her face is somewhere between exhausted and blissful and you smile. You smile as you kiss her from her knees up her thighs. You smile as you kiss next to your target and her whole body tenses. This is part of the game. This is the hunt. This is what you’re here for. Yet, something in your smile betrays that notion. You come down on her hard and her legs show how unready she was. How wet she is, now that, that tells a different story.    
  
You test her, you play with her, you find the right motions. Once you have something that makes her lose all control over her body, you don’t let it go. She likes circles and swirls, and once you have her where you need her, you shift your weight onto one arm. A single finger finds its way into her and her hands bury themselves in your hair. She pulls and you thrust. You thrust and she pulls. You find a motion together, rough and fast and soon enough, her back arches. You use a second finger and you feel her grow tighter and tighter around you. You stay focused and she boils over.    
  
The game is won.    
  
She collapses back onto the bed and lets go of you. You sit up on your knees and smile. She looks at you through half open e yes and pants heavily. You wipe your face on the back of your hand. She opens her arms and motions for you to lay with her. You comply. You collapse into her arms and she sighs contently.    
  
“Green reverse. Comes back to me,” she whispers.    
  
“What?” You snort.    
  
“My turn,” she whispers back. It is her turn. It’s her turn to bite and claw her way around your body. She discovers that you enjoy simple strokes and nails digging at the inside of your knees. She discovers that you enjoy holding hands while she’s there, making you squirm. She discovers that your moans are low until you’re there, going numb and ready to pull her hair out, and then it’s high-pitched and needy. She giggles when you finish. You give her a look of disinterest and she collapses beside you. You scoop her into your arms and she lays her head on your chest.    
  
“No more draw fours, please,” you mumble.    
  
She doesn’t giggle or chuckle or even respond. You realize that as quickly as she laid down, she fell asleep. She has one arm lazily across your stomach and one beside her. Her left leg is wrapped around your right. Your hand gently strokes her now destroyed hair. She’s warm and she’s gentle. This is the kind of girl that will offer you breakfast in the morning. This is the kind of girl who will text you to see how your day is going. This is the kind of girl that will surprise you with flowers and take care of you when you’re sick. This girl, who had you walk her home, to watch Netflix with her, so she could make you cocoa and kick your ass at Uno, is precisely what you went out looking for. You had forgotten in your peace with her what you were out for. You had forgotten that you needed a suitable someone to get Mother off your back for an evening. This though, this is not an ordinary sacrifice to Mother. This is something special. This is not something easily disposable. You kiss her on the forehead and she stirs slightly, wrapping her arm tighter around you. This is something that will only be disposed of when you ruin it.    
  
The game is over. You’ve won, yet another trophy for your case.    
  
  
No, you think. The game is still going and this time, you are going to lose.


	2. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a really short chapter, a bit of filler to continue on to the meat of the story. I finally got to dust this story off and work on it a bit! I'm terribly sorry it took so long. Getting the inspiration together took ages. I hope you enjoy!

On a typical morning, you’d be sipping from two weeks-expired soda and dreaming of the things you’d paint if you could.    
  
Somewhere in the quiet of your room, you’d imagine black streaks soaking a canvas to curve and twist into the snarling jaws of a panther. You’d imagine how you’d sit on the floor, in your own flat, blinking between the noise and the dreams, creating something wonderful. You can’t paint,though; you haven’t the patience for it, and you never had. Mother almost preferred it that way.   
  
You can’t think of her now, though. Not in this quiet place where the sun meets your cheeks through the window and everything smells like sugar and old sweat. You roll over from your comfortable place to find Laura curled up in a ball, her nose twitching and her mouth dragged into a scowl. Like a damn dreaming puppy. You could poke at her, wake her, tell her you need to leave. That’s what you’d normally do. You’d wake her after you were dressed, maybe not even wake her at all.    
  
But, you need her. Both for your mother’s benefit and your own. You need her, as a friend, as a something you can’t put a name to. A label not fit for a girl you just met, but something worthy of someone so strangely sweet. You sit up and stretch your arms, careful enough to not wake her. You wonder what you could do with this extra time. Maybe dream a painting more surreal than a feline predator.    
  
Instead you get up, pull on your underwear and shirt and walk into the kitchen. Where would she keep her breakfast food? You check the fridge, but instead of bacon or eggs, you find a gallon of chocolate milk and two cases of grape soda. Okay. You open a couple of the cabinets. Toaster tarts, cookies, more cookies, hot chocolate mix clearly bought by the case, and wow, what a surprise, more cookies. Alright, clearly this girl doesn’t give a damn about her blood sugar. You riffle through the hot chocolate mixes and find a couple of mugs, filling them up with chocolate milk and mix.    
  
For the food category, you settle on toaster tarts and pop them in the toaster.    
  
“Good morning,” you hear in a groggy tone behind you.    
  
“Good morning, cupcake,” you say back. You don’t turn around, but you hear her shuffle closer as if she refuses to pick her feet from the ground.    
  
“Are you making breakfast?”    
  
“Yes, with all the ingredients you had, I was able to make a fine cocoa drink and marvelous strawberry pastries with a hardened vanilla icing.”    
  
“Clearly you’re a master chef,” she grumbles.    
  
“And clearly you want to be in some form of coma, did they not teach the food pyramid where you went to school?”    
  
“They did, I just only listened for the important portions.”    
  
“Ah, of course,” you chuckle. She scoots closer behind you as you take a mug out of the microwave and wraps her arms around your waist. She nuzzles into your back and you nearly drop the mug. You feel a warmth across your cheeks that you blame on the sun coming through the window pane.    
  
“Thanks for breakfast,” she says softly. “Master chef.”    
  
“Is that my new nickname? I actually kind of liked Yoga.”    
  
“Master Yoga then.”    
  
You stand there, with the ceramic mug burning against your knuckles, with Laura lazily pressed at your back. You stand there in the quiet, where even a pin dropping couldn’t disturb you, and you wait. You wait for the moment to collapse, for your mother to come in screaming, for your brother to remind you that you’re a failure. For anything. But it doesn’t happen. This thing with no label, full of nicknames and card games, halts the world for you to listen to her words.    
  
“So uh,” she starts as she withdraws her arms. “You maybe wanna catch lunch or something in a bit? Not that breakfast won’t be great, just that I know not everyone can live on my diet.”    
  
Yes, no, maybe. You sit the mug down and turn to face her. She’s stiff as a board and there’s a rosiness to her cheeks.    
  
“While that sounds like a promising endeavor, I should probably go before my family thinks I’ve run away from home.”    
  
“Right,” she says with an awkward nod. She looks away and it almost hurts.    
  
“I do have this thing coming up, though,” you say. No, don’t do it. She’s better than this.    
  
“Oh?” She looks back to you, and the noise is there again. Your mother’s voice, like claws against jagged glass, your brother like a hyena in the night.    
  
“Next week, a charity event my mother’s hosting, would you wanna come?”    
  
“Yeah, sure! Is it a formal kinda thing? ‘Cause I’d have to find something to wear.”    
  
“Most likely, but don’t worry about it too much.”    
  
“I’ll be there,” she says. You hand her the mug of hot chocolate and heat your own. You sit on the couch with her and eat toaster tarts and talk. You learn that she likes anything and everything that’s ever had a wizard in it. She learns that you played the bass for all of ten minutes before you managed to pop a string and break a finger. You learn that she hates mustard. She learns that you hate having to put mustard on things because work makes it so exhausting.    
  
“Is there really a particular way you have to do it?”    
  
“Exactly one line, not meeting the end of the dog, with as little mustard as possible.”    
  
“Huh,” she says.    
  
You’ve finished your tarts and your cocoa. There’s nothing left in the silence but you and her. This is a realization she’s having too. You can tell by the way she’s looking at the table, anticipating her own words, a way to make an extra five minutes. This is it, though, this is the end.    
  
“I should probably get dressed,” you say.    
  
“The community generally prefers you wear clothes outdoors for some reason,” Laura agrees. You laugh and she waits as you go finish dressing yourself. You walk back out and she’s waiting in the hall. Cute little flannel that’s way too big for her sitting on her shoulders like a blanket. You hug her and she hugs you.   
  
“I had a great time,” she says softly.    
  
“I did too, Freewheel,” you say.    
  
“I’ll see you next week?” She asks. She’s expecting it, she wants it. You’ve known her a day and she wants to see you again more than most people do. It’s strange, it sits like a mossy stone turning in your belly. Is this too much for you to handle? Is this anything at all?    
  
The game is still going, and you’re already losing.    
  
“I’ll see you next week,” you say confidently. You’re the best person you know when it comes to faux confidence.    
  
A day before the event -    
  
The noise of mother’s party planning is something indescribable. Her constant back and forth, her refusal to listen to reason, the way she feels that anything, even death, should know better than to get in her way. The week has been long and rough. You miss your new friend already. You’ve talked to her just about every day. Simple messages for the most part, getting to know her. She asks how your day is, every day, and asks how work was, every night. She’s polite, she’s kind, she’s everything that collapses you inside.    
  
“Kitty, you’ve been on your phone an awful lot, how’s that replacement doing?” Will asks.   
  
Replacement, ugh. That’s not the label this is meant to have.    
  
“She’s wonderful,” you snap. You roll your eyes and he laughs.    
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you get an actual emotional attachment to your dinner last week? Mattie says you ditched the bar for one of her writers. A journalist? That’s a tricky play.”    
  
“You sound like mother,” you grumble.    
  
“I care about you,” he says. He’s not lying entirely, and you know that. “If you have to live here, you might want to actually survive long enough to move somewhere else.”    
  
You ignore him even though he’s right. Surviving mother is a tedious task. Sit up straight, mind your manners, and pretend nothing bad ever happens behind the pristine wallpaper. You sit up on your bed and Will rolls himself off of it.    
  
“Have you picked up your dress yet?” he asks.    
  
“No, I don’t see what’s wrong with the ones I already have.”   
  
“You’ve worn them already,” he says.    
  
“Truly a crime to wear a dress twice in the same lifetime,” you reply.    
  
“To mother, yes, you may as well be hanged for it.”    
  
“To the gallows with me, then.”   
  
You look to your phone to find your prompt 6pm text from Laura. She wants to know how work went. Polite, kind, collapsing ever so slowly. A smile creeps across your lips as you tell her it was mustardy and suffocating.    
  
“You really like her, don’t you?”    
  
You give him a glance before preparing your next snarky remark to find he’s being honest. He’s looking at you with a certain sort of care.    
  
“Hard to say, I’ve only seen her once.”   
  
“Can’t wait to meet her tomorrow, then. I’m sure Matska will be thrilled to see you happy.”   
  
“I’m sure Mother will be thrilled to see I haven’t married the Queen of England.”    
  
You wonder how Mother will react to Laura, really. How many flaws she’ll gauge out of her just by glancing at her. How she’ll rest a bony hand on Laura’s shoulder to measure if she’s strong enough to fight. How she’ll do all this while laughing at every tasteless joke through a clenched smile. And it’ll all be obnoxious and it’ll rot the parts of you that still care.   
  
“Regardless, I-”    
  
“Children!” You hear the call. The warcry that shatters your eardrums and any promise of peace for the evening.    
  
“Time for the hanging,” you say.   
  
“I’ll get the rope,” he replies.    
  
You both roll yourselves off of your bed and kiss the quiet of the crimson walls goodbye. You follow Will down the stairs to the dining room where mother waits with a thick binder in front of her at the table. You look at him and he looks back at you. The Planner.    
  
The planner is several hundred pages of tedious, mind numbing work. She spends hours editing the guest list inside, the table settings for each event, the way the walls should shimmer at the venue. Everything down to how the napkins should be folded is in that binder. Will sits in his usual seat on the other side of the table, you take the seat across from him.    
  
“I’ve got you both sitting with Matska as well as George Lewroe’s son, Steven for the event tomorrow. You’ll need to be on your top behavior as his father is likely to give one of the largest donations tomorrow.”    
  
“Stevie? Wasn’t that the kid who Carmilla uh-” Will looked to mother, then you.    
  
“He wanted to swallow the sock, I let him. I was 7, what was I supposed to do?”    
  
“Something other than cheer for him, most likely,” Will suggests. Mother’s head falls into her hands and she begins to rub her temples.    
  
“Must you bring that up every time we talk about the poor man? Be nice to him. I’ll have Matska watching both of you. If I hear a single sarcastic remark or ill-timed joke of any kind there will be consequences, am I clear, my little ducks?”    
  
“Yes, mother,” you both chime in a voice so robotic. It’s what Will gets for trying to throw you under the bus. The kid wanted the sock, after all.   
  
“Good. Carmilla, have you picked up your dress?”    
  
“I will today,” you reply.    
  
“You’ll do it now,” she commands. She says it with such a light, easy tone yet you know the wrath beneath. “William will take you.”    
  
“Of course,” he groans.    
  
“And Carmilla?” Mother says. You look over to her, somewhere in between standing and ready to sit down for a lecture. She doesn’t even look at you.    
  
“Yes, Mother?”    
  
“You will be bringing Ell, won’t you? I have her listed on your table.”    
  
“Actually, I’ll be bringing Laura.”    
  
The planner closes with a thud. She’s already tearing your plan to shreds in her mind; you can tell by the glossiness of her eyes. She gets a certain joy out of the fires she can start in your life. Burning a home to the ground is a way of starting over for her. You’re surprised she hasn’t done it in a literal sense at this point.    
  
“And who is Laura?”    
  
“She works with Mattie,” you explain. Mattie, your guardian angel. Mother’s lips twist into a strange smile, it’s easier to know Mattie introduced you instead of a beer bottle. She nods and opens the planner.    
  
“I’ll put her at your table, I can’t wait to meet her,” she says. “You’re both dismissed. Be ready at precisely four tomorrow for the car to pick us up.”    
  
“Of course, mother,” you say.    
  
Will follows you outside and you both spend a little time in the quiet. Away from her tight grasp on your lives. He’s a mama’s boy. He loves it when she loves him. He loves it when he’s showered in praise, when it’s clear he’s the favorite between the two of you. Yet there are some days where his tricks don’t work. Days where you’re one in the same. You sit in the car with him, idly listening to Radiohead and staring out the window.    
  
“If it backfires,” he says. “What are you going to do?”    
  
“Suffer another lecture,” you say with a lazy shrug.    
  
“How many lectures are you going to take?” he asks. You look at him with a raised brow.    
  
“Why?”    
  
“I finally just asked myself the same thing,” he says. “I wanted to compare notes.”   
  
“I ask myself everyday,” you reply. He nods. You go back to gazing out the window. How many lectures will you take? How many will he? Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe you’ll find something that you can dream about on lazy saturday mornings that you can actually do. Something you have the patience for. Your phone vibrates:    
  
_ Laura: Can’t wait to see you tomorrow!  _   
  
Maybe you’ve found someone you can dream about them with. 


End file.
